“One last thing…” Konstantin leans back in his chair, cutting into my thoughts. “Do ensure you don’t hurt Fiona. If you do, Emilia will not be happy. And that means I will not be happy.” His grin widens. “Do we understand each other?”
My nostrils flare, but I don’t say anything. Of course my prosecutor had to be friends with his wife. Because fate is a sadistic bastard with a sense of humor.
But nothing I have planned will hurt her. Not physically, anyway…
Konstantin smooths his tie with a flick of his hand. “We all know war with the Volkovs is inevitable. But for now, let us eat. Emilia prepared lunch. I expect everyone to be on their best behavior.”
We file out into the dining room like the civilized criminals we are, settling around the long dining table. I pick at my plate, pretending to care about food. But all I can think about is Fiona.
Where is she now? What is she wearing? Is she still thinking about last night?
I mutter a curse, stabbing at a piece of roast.
I have to stop this. She is the enemy. A threat.
But none of that seems to matter. Because even here, surrounded by blood and power and legacy, all I see is her.
And I do not know how to stop it.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
FIONA
The momentthe limo pulls up to the curb, I second-guess everything. The heels, the dress, the decision to get in at all.
When the door swings open and Wesley steps out, that gnawing unease in my gut roars to life. He straightens the front of his suit with an arrogant flourish, as though the whole world’s lucky just to see him exist.
“You look stunning.” His gaze sweeps down my body like a scanner with too much interest.
I try not to flinch when he takes my hand and brushes a kiss to my knuckles, but every cell in my body recoils. I already hate how close he is. How comfortable he seems touching me.
A chill spiders down the back of my neck. I don’t know if it’s him or just this eeriness of being watched.
Is Aleksei here? Lurking somewhere? Watching me from some unseen corner?
My eyes gloss over the street, but there’s no sign of him. Still, the buzz beneath my skin refuses to fade.
Wesley gestures toward the open door, and I force myself to move, slipping into the backseat. He slides in after me, and we’re too close—his knee brushing mine, his cologne invading the air. I already can’t wait to get this damn meeting over with.
The ride is filled with surface-level questions about my family, our vineyard, and his claim at potential. I answer as little as I can, nodding where necessary, letting my gaze drift out the tinted window.
After nearly forty minutes, we pull up to what looks like an industrial warehouse.
My brows furrow. “This doesn’t look like a club.”
Wesley reaches into a small velvet box, pulling out a black lace mask that he holds out for me. “Put this on.”
I don’t take it. “Where the hell are we?”
“You’ll see,” he says with a wink.
My God, the way I hate men who wink.
I should leave. Right now. But curiosity—dangerous, stupid curiosity—settles in my gut, and I slide the mask over my face, instantly knowing I’m going to regret it.
He opens the limo, the cold air biting across my skin as we start toward the door. A few people in masks are already lined up, equally dressed up.
When it’s our turn, a man in a red devil’s mask steps forward with a black scanner in hand. He doesn’t speak or ask who we are, just lifts the device and sweeps it over our masks. A faint beep follows, and without hesitation, he steps aside to let us pass. These clearly must have chips in them.
